Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 26

  At the garage, I took the elevator to the fifth floor. Stepping out, I didn’t see my car where I thought I’d left it. Every space was full, and more cars drove swiftly up the ramp, aggressively hunting for openings. I started walking, keeping close to the parked bumpers.

  A black sedan turned the corner, LED lights dazzling my eyes. Momentarily blinded, I stood still. The car sped up as it turned the corner and climbed the next ramp. Its engine roared.

  A light beep nearly sent me out of my skin. A VW Bug was tailing me, wanting to take my spot. I made an apologetic gesture and hurried on. My car turned out to be just around the corner, crammed into a compact space.

  I drove carefully down to the exit. The mechanical arm lifted. I eased out and idled a moment, orienting myself. The street was packed with cars and people, all streaming purposefully in the same direction, dressed in red and black.

  Lights flashed in my rearview mirror. The black sedan was pulling up to the ticket booth.

  Without thinking, I turned left, tires squealing. Pedestrians stopped to stare. I made another left, hoping to get to the highway. I wasn’t familiar with the downtown blocks, and the streets were thick with baseball game traffic. As I slowed to decide where to go, the black sedan appeared behind me. It followed as I turned right, onto a one-way street solidly packed with cars. Bars lined the sidewalks, patios overflowing. Bros in baseball caps darted across the street, hopping as they ran, like deer. I longed to be out of my car; I could disappear into the crowd easily.

  Left again. At the next intersection, two police cars parked diagonally, sirens silently flashing. An officer wearing an orange stick forced me to turn right. I wanted to roll down my window and tell him I was being followed, but in spite of my terror, it seemed foolish.

  The black car kept close. The dark windshield gleamed, impervious. I felt horribly visible. It seemed as if the driver would be able to tell when my eyes lifted to the mirror, to see the sweat on my forehead.

  All around us, the normal evening carried on. A scalper fanned himself with tickets. Vendors sold frozen bottled water. A ripping sound came from above: a Blue Angel warming up before the game. Traffic oozed.

  When I came to the next intersection, I hesitated. Turn, or go straight? The black car nimbly slid into the left lane and zipped ahead. I watched it pull into a parking garage.

  Just someone looking for a spot, failing to find one in the other garage, and trying elsewhere. I tried to laugh at myself—my hands had gripped the wheel so tightly my joints were sore—but my muscles didn’t unclench.

  I got onto the freeway and drove east. In spite of myself, I kept glancing into the rearview. I counted cars, tallying the colors. Most were white or beige, practical choices for the desert. But here and there someone had chosen black: a convertible, several SUVs, even a limo. Only now, tracking the cars around me, did I realize I should have looked at the license plate, so next time I’d know for sure.

  Ridiculous, I told myself. There wouldn’t be a next time. My knuckles were white on the wheel.

  35

  The football team was practicing. The stadium glowed. The campus was so quiet that the noise of commands and whistles carried to the library doors.

  Philip had called Clint his oldest friend. And Clint had played football. Brenda had told me plainly, but it hadn’t registered until, driving home, I passed the campus, and saw the stadium.

  The library was deserted. I easily found the yearbook archive, and the volumes that covered Philip’s student years. I remembered my first time reading them, new to working for the Martins, delighted to see Philip’s evolution from eager freshman to confident captain. I paused at my favorite photograph, Philip carrying Tina on his shoulders, happiness plain on their faces.

  No wonder I hadn’t noticed Clint. He was younger by two years, a freshman when Philip was a junior, kicker to Philip’s quarterback. While Philip starred in candid shots splashed across the pages, Clint appeared only in a thumbnail-sized portrait, barely recognizable under a heavy cap of hair.

  The following year, both boys appeared only in their individual portraits. Philip’s accident had ended his season early, and under the shadow of scandal.

  I checked the books for the next two years, but Clint had dropped from the team roster.

  Decisively, I pinched the pages of Philip’s football years and ripped them from their bindings. Then I replaced the books on the shelf, shoving them far back, until they dropped behind the others. Buried.

  At the bank of computers, I pulled up the newspaper database. I’d read all the articles, until Philip’s accident had imprinted itself on my mind. I seemed to have a sense memory for the events: the hot, dark night, the jarring tumble of the Jeep, the endless slide and echoing slam to a stop. But my focus had been trained on Philip and Tina like a spotlight. I’d nearly forgotten that one of Philip’s teammates had been in the car with them.

  My hunch was right. In the very first report of the accident, I read that Clint Davis had been riding shotgun. The article noted that he was hospitalized for his injuries but didn’t provide details. Most of the real estate on the page was devoted to Philip and Tina. Their team portraits were printed beside the photo of the crumpled Jeep. There was no picture of Clint.

  Later articles mentioned Clint even more briefly. Many referred to him only as “the third passenger” or “Mr. Martin’s teammate.” He couldn’t compete with beautiful dead Tina, or golden reckless Philip. Even the Senator was named more often than Clint.

  Finally, in the university newspaper, I found more detail: football team down two players after accident. Philip broke an arm. Clint broke three ribs and ruptured a disc in his spine.

  This article included a photograph of the boys in practice uniforms, arms around each other’s shoulders. Young Clint was unrecognizable. Handsome. Taller than Philip, with thick dark hair and a square jaw. Knowing he was only months away from the injury that would change his life, I found his smile poignant, unbearable.

  I came across only one other significant reference to Clint: in the D.A.’s announcement that Philip wouldn’t be charged.

  He said there was no evidence that Philip had been intoxicated, and analysis of the accident didn’t suggest unsafe speeding.

  “Mr. Martin attested that the darkness, combined with the sharp turns in the road, had made driving conditions difficult. The surviving passenger, Clint Davis, corroborated Mr. Martin’s version of events.”

  Clint was the only witness. And he backed up Philip’s story. Stuck with his friend. Maybe it was the truth. Maybe it wasn’t, quite.

  Chewing my lip, I looked again at the photograph in the school paper. Clint grinned at Philip, openly adoring. Philip faced the camera.

  I printed the articles and cleared my history from the computer.

  Clint’s injuries were severe. He must have hated Philip. Philip, who was barely hurt, who got to leave Arizona and return a long-lost son.

  Or Clint clung to the friendship of a powerful, rich man.

  They must have kept in touch, or Clint wouldn’t have wound up in a pink house in Tucson, waiting for a baby to come. Maybe they’d met, now and then. Gone for a drink. Talked softly about their old lives, scrupulously avoiding the present. Maybe, now and then, Philip gave him a little money. Helped him out.

  Certainly he must have paid Clint to watch over Stacy.

  Maybe, way back then, he even paid Clint to support his account of the accident to the police.

  My oldest friend.

  If Philip wanted help getting rid of Iris, there was no one more logical than Clint to ask for it. To help keep her away from the family. Scare her. Burn her car?

  That loser, Marina had said, lashing out at Philip. How many times did I tell you not to trust him?

  Brenda’s dazed, forlorn face. The cramped trailer. The Sunset Motel key hidden under Philip’s lamp. The tape drawn across the door.

  Stacy’s delight at my mention of Clint.

  Collegiate Clint’s
young, naive grin, face turned to Philip, who didn’t return his gaze.

  Clint’s hacking cough and gleaming eyes, and the way he and Philip glared at each other across the desk. Mired in a bond, maybe friendship, maybe something else. Water under the bridge. Muddy water.

  On Sunday, Philip had reassured Marina. Clint won’t say a word. I promise.

  Two days later, Clint was found dead.

  Before I left the library, I texted Iris. She knew the whole story. If Clint had been helping Philip, then Philip’s words were in his defense. If Clint had been helping Iris, then the phrase had a different meaning.

  36

  I was at a crowded pool. I was looking for Amabel; I knew she was there, not drowned but hiding. I ran around lounge chairs, slipping on the wet stone. The water glittered. Blurred people splashed. I saw flashes of Amabel, over by the concession stand with a cup of lemonade, in line for the diving board—but I couldn’t get to her.

  I woke hot and breathless. An obvious dream, but the feelings had been vivid and physical. My mouth was dry as linen. Every light in my apartment was on. A bottle of vodka stood against the door, primed to topple if it opened.

  I had a reply from Iris. Fuck off.

  Please, I wrote back, offering money. If you tell me the truth.

  I got up for a glass of water. I turned off the lights until only my bedside lamp glowed.

  I lay back down, like Amabel before a nap. Something scratched at the door. Just my imagination. But my skin felt electric, as though even my pores were listening. The clicks in the walls. The drip of the kitchen faucet. Nothing unusual. Then the doorknob rattled. Not a forceful sound, but soft, as if someone had gently, slowly, softly, set their hand on it and twisted, testing for a lock.

  My limbs were rigid. I held my breath. The faucet dripped. The lightbulb faintly buzzed.

  I got up and approached the door on tiptoe. Through the peephole, I saw only empty space.

  I grabbed the vodka bottle and went back to bed.

  It was three. About the same time I’d woken up to find Bryant gone. The next morning, he’d seemed so strange. Stiff unhappiness in his face. And he hadn’t liked my asking where he’d been, as if he’d hoped to escape notice.

  Later that day, the maid found Clint in the tub.

  I was being ridiculous. Bryant was squeamish about a paper cut. Not to mention his distaste for anything untoward. My sneaking around Iris’s house, for example, looking through windows—he’d been shocked by that. It was low-class. Common. He was hardly capable of violence. My paranoia was only my midnight brain, hyperactive, exhausted, illogical.

  At four I gave up on sleep. I ate a bowl of cereal. By then, the night was retreating, the dark lifting. I turned on a movie.

  I woke to my door opening. The bolt scraped back and the door jolted to the end of the chain lock, catching with a metallic snap. Sun glowed in a bright ring around the blinds, as if angry to be shut out.

  “Finn?”

  It was Bryant. He stuck his fingers through the crack and fumbled around for the chain. “Are you here?”

  I was already out of bed. “Hang on.” To undo the chain, I had to shut the door, and for the moment it was closed, I had the impulse to throw the bolt again, to run for my desk chair and prop it under the knob.

  Instead I opened the door, and he strode in. He wore sunglasses, pleated chinos, a tight black polo in stretchy athletic material. He ground his shoes into the mat. Strands of grass clung to his soles.

  “Were you asleep?”

  “Yeah,” I said, hurrying ahead of him to move the vodka bottle away from the bed. I shoved it under the dresser.

  “It’s noon,” Bryant said.

  “You’re joking.”

  “I was getting worried.”

  Turning my back to him, I tugged open the drapes. “I must have been tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.” I immediately wanted to snatch the words back, thinking he’d push those blue pills. But he didn’t seem to notice. He was strolling around the room, picking up little objects: my keys, a hoop earring, a coffee mug, a framed snapshot from our early days. He held them inattentively and dropped them again.

  “What were you up to yesterday?”

  “I told you, I went out with friends. Are you looking for something?”

  “Sorry, just curious.” He picked up the dollhouse fishbowl and eyed the tiny, intricately painted goldfish behind the glass. “Which friends?”

  “Some girls from my old job. No one you know.”

  He tipped the bowl over to see if the goldfish would come out. “And what did you do?”

  “We went for drinks. We caught up. I haven’t seen them in months. It was nice.”

  “You felt comfortable talking about Amabel with these people?”

  “I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to mention Amabel to anyone.”

  We stared at each other. I looked at his hands, their clipped nails, his square strong shoulders.

  “I listened to them talk, mostly,” I said. “I wanted a break.”

  Bryant smiled without teeth, the way he did when he disagreed with someone but had to pretend otherwise. “I’m glad you got out.” He dropped the fishbowl back on my nightstand. “Are you up for lunch?”

  “Sure.” I collected my cereal bowl from the floor and took it into the kitchen. I passed him, close enough to see how his skin shone lightly with perspiration. Veins threaded his forearms. He might have been in an ad for running shoes or sports drinks. He was sun-kissed, vibrant with health. Beside him I felt haggard.

  “Were you golfing?” I asked.

  He hummed. “It was a hundred and two at seven-thirty. I thought we’d cancel, but my partner is a fanatic. He’s from Yuma. Doesn’t faze him.” He watched me rinse the dish, and as I walked by again he caught me by the arm.

  I nearly jumped. He studied me carefully. My face braced against him, like a child holding her breath to avoid being seen.

  He kissed me, lightly. I could feel his teeth shut behind his lips. “We didn’t say hello,” he whispered.

  The corners of my mouth were dry as I smiled. I focused on the freckles scattered over his nose. Once, when I ran my finger over them, he’d confessed to using retinol creams to lighten them, because they multiplied in the sun and made him look childish. I’d loved that, his rare insecurity.

  He glanced at his watch and said, “You should get dressed.”

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “I’ve got an afternoon booked solid.”

  I went into the closet to dress. All my clothes reminded me of Bryant. I still had the skirt I’d worn when we met, pale gray silk, even though the spilled water had left a mark that made it unwearable. And the dress I’d worn on our first date, and one of the shirts he’d lent me to sleep in, and the sweater he’d given me for our anniversary, when we exchanged keys. He’d never used his key before. We’d kept up the habit of knocking.

  But I’d forgotten. Bryant had used his key before. Monday night, when he let himself back into my apartment.

  After I dressed, I crossed the hall to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. My face was alarmingly bony and pale. I rubbed blush into my cheeks.

  When I came out, Bryant was crouched on the floor beside my bed. My purse lay open at his feet.

  “Your wallet slipped out,” he explained smoothly, lifting my bag by the straps and holding it out to me.

  I took it. Turning, I stuck my hand in and felt the edge of the Martins’ envelope, the slippery surface of the photographs, the inky printed articles. Bryant couldn’t have missed them. My wallet was at the bottom, flat against the fabric lining.

  Bryant was watching me. “Everything all right?”

  “Sure.” I couldn’t think of what to say. I zipped the bag and held it under my arm.

  “Aren’t you going to pack?”

  “Sorry?”

  “To stay over?”

  “I thought you were busy today.”

  “What? I said we have a booked
afternoon. You and me.”

  “I thought you said you were busy.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “Finn, I have the day off. We just talked about this. Couldn’t you hear me? I was telling you, we’ve got that dinner tonight, and I want to be with you. I worry about you too much when you’re alone. I want you to stay with me.”

  “I didn’t hear you,” I said. “I had the door closed.”

  He frowned, pressing his lips together. “Why do you sound disappointed? Is there a problem?” He looked hurt.

  I rushed to say no, there wasn’t a problem. I was glad. He followed me to the closet and leaned in the doorway. I felt his eyes on the clothes I chose, the shoes. When I brought only one new outfit, he said, impatiently, “That’s it? You’ll be doing laundry every day.”

  I didn’t want to ask what he meant again. I felt wrong-footed. I stuffed more clothes into the duffel and zipped it. He carried it for me, his hand on my lower back as we went out. I locked the door and tested the knob. It made a tight, tense rattle.

  We drove out to the fringes of the city, where an exclusive resort had transformed acres of desert into a lush, almost tropical landscape. Low, modern buildings scattered like archipelagoes in the midst of garden paths and swimming pools. In the main courtyard, an artificial waterfall thundered down a wall, and pastel fish drifted in the churning blue water. Presidents had stayed here; professional golf tournaments played out across the groomed green acres.

  Bryant had arranged an afternoon in the spa. The front desk was expecting us. As we checked in, he slid his phone across the desk. “You, too,” he said to me, grinning.

  I pressed a protective hand over my purse.

  “You’ll get them back at checkout,” the worker said. She was dressed all in white, her hair slicked back into a fierce tight knot. “We find that going phone-free relaxes all the guests. And ensures privacy, of course.”

  I reached into my bag and fumbled for my phone. I had a new message from Iris: 4:00. Your place. With Bryant at my side, I could only reply hastily. I’ll try.